


Pneumonia

by onlyacoffee



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 06:53:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3841288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyacoffee/pseuds/onlyacoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Feuilly falls ill, and Enjolras is worried.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“You have to take better care of yourself," Enjolras began, looking at his own fingers, long and dark and strong, gripping the bed sheets, purposefully avoiding looking up to Feuilly’s face, fearing what he would find if he looked.</i><br/>“And if you can’t - You should know, by now, that  -  you should know we are here to take care of you. Combeferre and Courfeyrac and everyone. And me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pneumonia

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to finish something, for once. ;) most of this was posted on tumblr earlier this months in two separate drabbles. what little medical stuff there is in there is probably all wrong; I'm sorry.

It came on suddenly – to everyone except perhaps Feuilly himself.

Only a few days before, Feuilly had appeared to be well. Tired, perhaps, more than usual, but so were every one of their group – it was the middle of winter, and all their efforts at everything they attempted or discussed felt painfully slow. Enjolras had simply assumed it was what weighted on Feuilly, and that he would be back to his habitual enthusiasm before too long.

But it was before Prouvaire, pale and scared and on the verge of tears, had knocked on Enjolras and Combeferre’s door, because something was wrong with Feuilly – they had been arguing, it seemed, and suddenly Feuilly had started coughing until he couldn’t stop, and he had passed out, and _oh, God, please come, Combeferre, he’s alone and I can’t go back, he will hate me_ –

(Enjolras learned eventually that Prouvaire, worried by Feuilly’s worn appearance, had walked with him from the workshop, and had voiced his concerns. They had both lost patience with each other, and the excitement had gotten the better of Feuilly’s abused lungs and he had collapsed.)

Things went very quickly after that.

Enjolras followed Combeferre to Feuilly’s rooms, while Prouvaire went in another direction – Enjolras would worry about him later. When they arrived, they found Feuilly, still clothed, on his bed, his cheeks feverishly red over his pale, clammy complexion. He was nearly unresponsive; he blinked at them owlishly, barely managed to lift a hand in greeting.

Combeferre, after declaring Feuilly to be suffering from pneumonia, left to get fresh water and rags for his fever. In the meantime, Enjolras undressed Feuilly, removing his sweat-soaked shirt and the bindings on his chest so he could breathe easier. But Feuilly grew more and more unresponsive with each passing minute, and by the time Enjolras had him in clean clothes and tucked back under the covers, he was fully unconscious.

He did not wake when Combeferre came back to examine him again. In fact, he did not wake for the better part of a week.

\---

Enjolras was silent for a long time; he simply sat by Feuilly’s bedside, his brow creased deep in concentration, through the entire night, and the following day as well – he had decided he would stay until he was certain Feuilly was out of danger.  Combeferre, looking as tired as Enjolras himself, stayed with him, making sure their friend’s temperature did not rise. Besides that, there was not much to do but wait. Combeferre shook his head, rubbed at his eye and clasped Enjolras on the shoulder; Enjolras did not move.

By late afternoon of the fourth day, Feuilly’s fever still hadn’t broken, and the sound of his laboured breathing rattling in his chest in the heavy silence of the room became too painful to bear; so Enjolras readjusted the cool cloth on his forehead – more of a habit now, as he had lost count of how many times he had done in the past week; it never seem to help much - sat back against the chair, and started talking to drown out the crackling noise.

“You  _have_  to take better care of yourself,” he began, looking at his own fingers, long and dark and strong, gripping the bed sheets, purposefully avoiding looking up to Feuilly’s face, fearing what he would find if he looked. 

“And if you can’t - You should know, by now, that  - you should know we are here to take care of you. Combeferre and Courfeyrac and everyone. And me. - I’m not angry. I think Prouvaire may be, but you will have to deal with him yourself, my friend. When you’re better. But you know Prouvaire - I fear he won’t accept anything else than an apology - in person - from you.”

There was no answer from the bed, and for a maddening moment Enjolras was afraid he had talked too much. But the same wheezy, crackling sounds were still present. Enjolras took any kind of breathing, pained as it was, as a blessing. He reached out to take his friend’s hand and give it a light squeeze – against Enjolras’ golden skin, Feuilly’s looked almost grey. He gave no sign of waking up, or even that he was aware of Enjolras’ presence.

“There is no shame, you know,” Enjolras continued. “In needing help. Especially not from us - we’re your friends, Feuilly. Combeferre said you were probably ill for longer than you told us you had been. I don’t – I don’t understand,” he bit his lip.

“We’d have helped you. I thought you would have known this by now. We would have figured something out, we -” Enjolras’ voice cracked and his vision blurred. “You should have told us. We’d have helped you.”

The sun was setting, now; the orange rays filtered through the dirty window to fall on the bed. In the dying light, Feuilly’s face looked almost back to its normal, healthy colour; but his fever did not break before two more days had passed, and he did not open his eyes until well into the next week.

\---

“… Enjolras?” 

Feuilly’s voice was weak and hoarse, barely an echo of what it used to be only a fortnight ago, but Enjolras was still so terribly, so overwhelmingly glad to hear it - and he immediately felt what little energy he had left flee his body. He sagged against the back of his chair; still smiling, and closed his eyes, letting the way the syllables of his name sounded in that dear voice fill his entire head, his head, every nook of his being where fear and sadness had resided for the past ten days.

“Enjolras, are you al-” Feuilly attempted to sit up, but broke off coughing. It was a rough, painful cough, and Enjolras’ eyes flew open as he remembered that his friend wasn’t completely out of the woods just yet. He rose, and placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder, and sat back next to him on the bed.

“Shhh, it’s alright. You’re alright. Breathe,” he whispered, holding a handkerchief to his friend’s lips.

Eventually, Feuilly’s coughing fit subsided, fading into more-or-less normal breathing; still too shallow, still too noisy to Combeferre’s trained ear, and the handkerchief was stained with pink, but Enjolras would not be picky, not if it meant his friend still breathed.  Feuilly looked up at Enjolras with red-rimmed eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped. He had to take another steadying breath to continue, to keep his lungs under control; Enjolras let him. “What - how long have you been here?”

Feuilly had tried so hard to hide - oh, Enjolras could see it know, the questions in his eyes. Feuilly’s mind, no longer clouded with the fever of the past week, was surely going over what he could remember from earlier this month. Where had he slipped? How had he gone from desperately struggling to keep himself together though one more day of work - to lying in bed, bedridden for nearly two weeks, apparently being watched over by the very people he had tried to hide his weakness from?

But Feuilly’s raw throat - as well as his pride - did not let him voice these questions, and he could only looked at Enjolras, eyes bright with a mix of gratitude and shame.

Enjolras just sat closer to him, settling next to him on the bed and wrapping an arm around his shoulders, carefully avoiding moving him too much and triggering another bout of coughing.

“You’ve been very ill,” Enjolras began softy. “Prouvaire was worried and came to visit you, do you remember?” Feuilly’s cheeks flushed lightly, and he nodded. Enjolras conitnued, “You already had a fever then - but it got worse. You - “  _You couldn’t breathe, your lips were blue - and you wouldn’t wake_. “- your breathing was difficult. We’ve all been here, trying to keep your fever down and watch. I’m sorry, Feuilly. We were worried – we couldn’t leave you alone. You are our friend.”

 _We all wanted to be with you,_ Enjolras kept to himself.  _Joly blamed himself for not seeing it earlier - and none of us could bear the thought of letting you slip away without saying goodbye._

(Maybe Enjolras would tell him that, later, after Combeferre had assured them he would, without a doubt, pull through. Maybe then Enjolras would tell him about the way Courfeyrac had cried as he held Feuilly’s hand, and promised not to tease him about bringing up long-dead tyrants of far-away countries in every conversation anymore. Feuilly would enjoy holding that promise against Courfeyrac for a bit, Enjolras thought.)

“And Jehan?” Feuilly asked, and if his voice had been tired before, now it was exhausted, and he leaned heavily into Enjolras’ side.

“He’ll come. We’ll call for him, if you want to see him.”

Feuilly smiled, but it was strained, bitter - and it pained Enjolras to see it.

“I shouldn’t have lied to him. He must hate me,” he winced, and Enjolras shook his head.

“No. He is - shaken up, of course. But he’ll come,” he promised.

Too weary to argue, Feuilly nodded.

“I think I will sleep again, Enjolras. If you don’t mind,” he said, each word weaker than the last.

“No, of coruse. Would you like me to leave, fetch you water?”

“I - no. I’m alright. Please. Stay.”

“I will,” Enjolras kissed the top of Feuilly’s head, and this time, Feuilly’s smile was gentle, and honest, and exactly as it should be. He squeezed Enjolras’ hand.

“Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
